


can you tell

by retts



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Fluff, I tried to write les mis okay, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, questioningjolras, what is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:19:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One afternoon Enjolras takes the seat across from Grantaire, conveniently in the direct path of soft afternoon light that makes it imperative for Grantaire to quickly capture the way the light burnishes Enjolras’ curls. He looks like a vision of paradise in every religion in the world and Grantaire frantically drags his pencil across his sketchbook, eyes flickering between the page and Enjolras. </p><p>‘It has come to my attention,’ Enjolras says and instantly ruins the ethereal image.</p><p>But that’s all right because Grantaire is an artiste and he is capable of working around obstacles like his muse being a flawed human after all. ‘Hold it,’ he pleads, ‘for the love of God, Enjolras, close your mouth and don’t move for a minute.’</p><p>Enjolras ignores him. ‘It has come to my attention,’ he says again, sharply this time, eyes narrowing at Grantaire, ‘that I don’t know much about you.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	can you tell

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii playing in this sandbox for a little bit because i was intrigued and also inspired 
> 
> written for the unrequited love/pining spot on my trope_bingo card!

 

 

One afternoon Enjolras takes the seat across from Grantaire, conveniently in the direct path of soft afternoon light that makes it imperative for Grantaire to quickly capture the way the light burnishes Enjolras’ curls. He looks like a vision of paradise in every religion in the world and Grantaire frantically drags his pencil across his sketchbook, eyes flickering between the page and Enjolras. 

‘It has come to my attention,’ Enjolras says and instantly ruins the ethereal image.

But that’s all right because Grantaire is an _artiste_ and he is capable of working around obstacles like his muse being a flawed human after all. ‘Hold it,’ he pleads, ‘for the love of God, Enjolras, close your mouth and don’t move for a minute.’

Enjolras ignores him. ‘It has come to my attention,’ he says again, sharply this time, eyes narrowing at Grantaire, ‘that I don’t know much about you.’

‘Well, we’ve only known each other for _two years_ ,’ Grantaire mutters as he traces a particularly wayward curl that is almost touching Enjolras’ cheek. He looks at Enjolras, who is staring back quite fiercely, and Grantaire faithfully imitates the look on paper.  

Enjolras keeps on ignoring his words. ‘I know that your political views are abysmal, you are probably never going to graduate, you have very little faith in humanity and believe in nothing, you draw me practically all the time without my consent, and you waste hours of your life following those entitled royal brats on the internet -- ’

‘Seriously, don’t knock Will and Kate in front of me,’ Grantaire warns, wagging his pencil in Enjolras’ face. ‘And don’t start on baby George!’

‘ _Grantaire_ ,’ Enjolras snaps and it nearly sounds like a whine except that his face carved out of marble is incapable of showing the appropriate expression.

‘What do you want, Apollo?’ Grantaire puts his pencil down and levels Enjolras with a questioning lift of his eyebrow. All those hours in front of the mirror are _so_ worth it for this one move.

Enjolras glares at him. ‘I want to know what your favourite colour is.’

‘Are you going for personal attacks in our next argument?’ Grantaire asks suspiciously and crosses his arms. ‘If so, then I’m going to go on record and say that I am not going to stoop to your level, I am the bigger man, and you have way more ammunition on me than I have on you, so you have an unfair advantage and I know you have this thing about everything being fair. Also, I don’t draw you all the time because then I wouldn’t even be able to eat or drink or go to the loo, and there is something called freedom of expression so if I want to exercise my freedom to express your face through art then that’s my prerogative and my favourite colour happens to be green, not that it’s any of your business -- ’

‘Green, that’s so obvious,’ and the asshole has the gall to look disappointed, and Grantaire picks up his pencil again to immortalise that look on paper from this particular distance.  Then Enjolras proceeds to rip apart Grantaire’s statement about how he’s using freedom of expression wrong and consent is always important in whatever situation.

 

-

 

An indeterminate number of days later, Enjolras sits across from him again. This time, Grantaire is starting early on his wild night of debauchery with a bottle of wine. As usual, Enjolras is unimpressed with Grantaire’s dedication.

‘It’s five o’clock on a Monday,’ Enjolras says flatly, glaring at the bottle. ‘I’d have thought you’d done all your drinking during the weekend.’

‘You really don’t know anything about me, do you?’ Grantaire muses good-naturedly. He nudges the bottle towards the other man. ‘Go on, have a drink. Add generous to your list of facts about me.’

‘No, thank you, and you really should use a glass if you want to share.’ Enjolras leans forward and tilts his head a little, eyes blue and contemplative and focused on Grantaire.

Grantaire mimics his actions, and adds propping his chin on his fist and curling his lips a little. He can’t help the smile because Enjolras’ face is _right there_ and he’s only said one slightly insulting thing since he sat down, which was five minutes ago but that’s still a record.

‘What’s your favourite book?’ Enjolras asks.

Grantaire doesn’t stop to think about it. ‘James and the Giant Peach.’

Enjolras makes a noise and it sounds approving for once. ‘Unexpected and an unexpectedly serious choice.’  

He laughs and takes a long guzzle of wine. Enjolras watches him intently enough to make Grantaire choke -- _if_ he isn’t a professional drinker, but he is, so all Grantaire does is swallow heavily and lick his lips. He clears his throat. ‘Actually,’ he says somewhat hoarsely, coughs into his hand, sweeps his fringe back, ‘I love it because of the arthropods. A giant centipede who owns a million boots sounds like my kind of bloke.’

‘You would like him,’ Enjolras mutters and then they spend the rest of the time arguing about banned books until everyone else arrives and the meeting starts.

 

-

 

Enjolras has been staring at him for the past ten minutes and frankly it’s deeply annoying because the weather is perfect for a mid-afternoon nap in the park. He can hear Bahorel and Bossuet laughing in the distance, and Joly fretting about getting tetanus if they cut their bare feet on stray shards of glass. Jehan is squealing about a lady bug and _Courfeyrac get away get away!_

‘Can I help you, Apollo?’ Grantaire asks from underneath his beanie, which is spread over his face. It speaks volumes about the power of Enjolras' glare that Grantaire can still feel it even with his eyes closed.

‘I have another question for you, Grantaire.’

‘We can’t let that go unanswered, can we?’

‘Yes,’ and Grantaire manages to roll his eyes even while they’re closed because he forgot that sarcasm goes right over Enjolras’ head. So does humour and pretty much any kind of innuendo. It's pretty unfortunate since they make up half of the things that Grantaire says.

‘What do you look for in a person? Romantically speaking, that is.’

Grantaire pulls a handful of grass from the ground and flicks them at Enjolras who makes an outraged noise.

‘I am not going to dignify that with an answer,’ Grantaire grits out because seriously? _Seriously?_

He can hear Enjolras getting up to his feet. ‘Fine, if you’re going to be uncooperative, I am going to ask Bahorel.’

Grantaire rolls onto his side. ‘You go do that, Enj -- ’

‘Bahorel, may I have a word?’

‘Fearless Leader! What can I do for you?’

‘What is Grantaire’s type?’

‘That’s easy. His name starts with an E -- ’

Grantaire’s brain explodes in horror and he scrambles to his feet so fast he trips twice, ‘ -- no, _fuck_ , fuck, wait, stop, Bahorel don’t you fucking say anything or I will kill you with my paint brush!’

 

-

 

‘Why are you here?’

‘You already asked me that question the first time we met, if I remember correctly. We argued about the meaning of life for the next forty minutes.’

Enjolras waves his hands impatiently. ‘I’m asking again, because you never gave me a proper answer. You come here and disrupt us and mock us and help us and defend us and -- ’ Enjolras grabs at Grantaire’s sleeve. ‘Why are you really here, R?’

It’s so rare for Enjolras to use his nickname and it trips Grantaire’s heart every time, the stupid eager thing.

‘I suppose,’ Grantaire says, slowly, on an exhale, corners of his mouth turned up in a self-deprecating grin, ‘I’m waiting for you to prove me wrong. If there’s something I have to believe in, then it might as well be you, Enjolras.'

 

-

 

Grantaire has just come inside the Musain for a much needed coffee boost and nothing else because he still has a painting to finish and he doesn’t have time for Enjolras’ optimistic prattle tonight, so he says, ‘No,’ to Enjolras on his way to the counter.

Enjolras trails after him. ‘No?’

‘No,’ Grantaire repeats. To the barista, he says, ‘A triple-shot latte please.’

‘No,’ Enjolras parrots, then, ‘you are going to be awake all night if you drink that.’

‘That’s the whole point, Apollo,’ Grantaire grumbles as he hands over the money and receives his coffee in return.

‘So Indian _isn’t_ your favourite cuisine?’

Grantaire spares the blond another moment as he sips his coffee. ‘Close, but it’s actually French. Love your own, I always say.’

‘This is probably the most patriotic you will ever be,’ Enjolras sighs.

‘Are you -- did you just make a _joke?_ ’ Grantaire does a double take, makes it overdramatic because he’s pathetic and he loves the way it makes Enjolras huff in exasperation and maybe a little bit of fondness.

Enjolras shrugs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. ‘I used to live with Courfeyrac; it was bound to happen sooner or later.’

‘Two jokes in the span of a few minutes, this is amazing. I’m almost sad to go now.’

Enjolras frowns. ‘You were not at the meeting tonight.’

Grantaire gives a heartfelt groan and frantically waves his free hand in the air. ‘Project, God, I’m so behind, I just didn’t know what to do and a day before it’s due, boom! Inspiration strikes! Life’s such a bitch like that.’ Grantaire sneaks a glance at Enjolras from above the rim of his coffee cup. ‘Actually, I have to go, much as I loathe to part ways now that you’ve actually found a sense of humour.’

Enjolras rolls his eyes. ‘Go, you idiot. But one last question for tonight: who is your favourite superhero?’

‘Captain America,’ Grantaire answers promptly and then winks. ‘There’s something about blond, righteous, and disgustingly patriotic that speaks to me, you know?’

Enjolras might or might not laugh out loud (he totally does).

 

-

 

‘Happy birthday!’ Courfeyrac yells as he wraps his arms around Grantaire and lifts him in an enthusiastic hug. ‘I can’t believe you’re letting us celebrate your birthday! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this opportunity?’

‘Trust me, I can’t believe it either.’ Grantaire sighs and then returns Courfeyrac’s hug, smiling crookedly. ‘And thanks.’

Combeferre gives him a much more subdued embrace. ‘He actually ate your cake but I texted Feuilly and he’s bringing another one.’

Colour spreads on Grantaire’s cheeks and he stutters, ‘No, uh, you didn’t have to, um, really, it’s cool.’

‘It’s your birthday and you are getting cake,’ Combeferre tells him firmly and then goes to stop Courfeyrac from molesting Jehan who looks like he won’t be opposed to it.

Grantaire bites down on his tongue when Enjolras gives him a light embrace. _He smells like apples_ , Grantaire thinks somewhat hysterically.

‘Um,’ he says, ever eloquent.

Enjolras gives him a faint smile. He’s holding something behind his back. ‘Red or white?’

‘I’d say black when you’re not here to light up my world,’ Grantaire says jokingly, but also not, and then scrubs a hand over his eyes and gives a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Red, definitely red, Apollo.’

Enjolras hands him the bottle of red wine. ‘Good choice, since it’s the one I bought. Happy birthday, R.’

Grantaire goes pink up to the tips of his ears. ‘Thank you, Enjolras.’

This time, Enjolras beams at him.

 

-

 

He’s drunk he’s so drunk he hasn’t been _this_ drunk in fucking ages and God it really feels good why isn’t this his natural state again because it’s fantastic and the world isn’t so terrible when it’s blurry and dark and dancing and all he really needs now is

‘Grantaire?’ Enjolras whispers.

‘Ap’lo why’re you n’ma flat?’ Grantaire slurs as he leans heavily against the doorframe.

‘You’re in my flat,’ Enjolras tells him and he is using his frowning voice, the one that’s not funny, the one that sends a pang that goes straight through Grantaire’s ribs. ‘You’re smashed.’

‘That I am Ap’lo.’ Grantaire scrunches up his face. ‘Oh. I wanted t’go home right ‘cause m’mum says I don’t have one n’more an’ I thought I thought -- ’

Enjolras catches him when Grantaire tips forward. His arms encircle Grantaire firmly and Grantaire buries his face in the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder. ‘Y’smell warm,’ he mumbles with a happy little sigh.

‘Grantaire,’ says Enjolras and Grantaire is glad to wait for whatever angry lecture is coming for him just as long as he can keep his face against Enjolras’ throat, just like this.

Nothing comes after his name and Enjolras tightens his arms around him in something like a hug.

‘Grantaire,’ says Enjolras again an eternity later, ‘do you -- are you -- ’

He doesn’t really know what Enjolras is asking but he nods all the same, mumbling, ‘Uh-huh, since forever. Tha’s a looooong time, Ap’lo. Enjyras -- Ejnolas -- _Enjolras_.’ He gives a breathless chuckle and nuzzles his nose against the silken hair curling behind Enjolras’ ear.

(In the morning he wakes up with an absolutely awful hungover on Enjolras’ couch. It’s still dark and quiet in the apartment. Grantaire breathes past the throbbing in his head, past the sudden rush of memories last night. He has to go before Enjolras wakes up and sees him and makes that terrible face. He fits his shoes back on, finds his phone, and leaves a message on the notepad lying on the table by the entryway.)

 

_( ~~Enjolras I~~ ) _

_( ~~Last night was shit~~ ) _

 

_(I’m sorry please forget everything last night & thanks for letting me stay – R)_

 

-

 

Grantaire only shows his face after missing a few meetings and everyone accosts him immediately with questions and demands of where he went, what happened, why the fuck didn’t he answer his phone or his door? (‘Were you dying?’ Joly asks frantically, feeling his pulse.)

He laughs their concern away, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m fine, really, sorry, I was just busy. Sorry, sorry!’

Grantaire meets Enjolras’ eyes from across the room and then looks away immediately.

Eponine pulls him aside a bit later. ‘Talk,’ she barks.

‘It was nothing, I swear.’ Grantaire spreads his hands in a placating gesture.

‘Nothing means everything with you, R,’ Eponine retorts, then her expression softens. ‘Enjolras has been quiet without you. He doesn’t ask as many annoying questions. Then again, it’s just you he asks.’

‘Don’t, not now, okay?’ Grantaire rubs wearily at his eyes.

‘Fine,’ Eponine snorts, ‘but let me just say that for the past few months he’s been giving you expressions, R. It’s like watching the Ice Queen melt and there’s actually a human underneath. Well, a human that responds to you now, anyway.’

Groaning, Grantaire closes his eyes and gently shoves her away. ‘Shut up.’

‘I call it as I see it, R.’ Eponine pats his cheek. ‘I have to go talk to Combeferre about things.’

‘Things,’ says Grantaire flatly, eyes snapping open to glare at her.

‘Yeah, things.’ She flashes him a sharp grin. ‘Also, Enjolras is coming this way.’

‘ _Ep_ ,’ he calls with something like panic in his voice. She still leaves with a cheerful wave. He feels someone tap his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Grantaire turns around and pretends that everyone isn’t openly staring at them. He needs better friends. ‘Enjolras, hello,’ Grantaire forces out, trying for pleasant and missing the mark completely.

Enjolras hands him a croissant. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks, Apollo, please, don't hold back,’ Grantaire says as he takes a bite. He eyes the other man warily.

Enjolras only nods and walks away.

(It actually takes a few more days before Enjolras starts up his questions again, starting with:

What is your favourite part of the city?

And Grantaire goes and shows him for the rest of the day.)

 

-

 

The biggest thing they do before the end of the year is a public assembly to spread awareness against bullying. It’s the culmination of the last few (very difficult, very traumatic) weeks and there are hundreds of attendees. Even Grantaire is grudgingly impressed. He’s been tasked with documenting the event, which is actually a pleasure because people are actually his favourite subject (even if most of the time he tends to avoid most of them because _ugh_ , people). The group has been coordinating with the public schools in the area, including a non-profit organization that’s their main source of funding, so Grantaire takes pictures of them first, shaking hands with Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Then he’s free to find interesting subjects to fill the memory card with (other than Enjolras, although there are plenty of shots of him: talking, smiling, glowing, lecturing, laughing, breathing).

Two hours later, Jehan finds Grantaire and drags him to the information booth because they ran out of flyers and could he please make some while Bahorel runs to the nearest photocopier machine. Grantaire agrees because it’s Jehan and he ends up ripping pages out of his own sketchbook as he draws and doodles and writes the information that he’s memorised from countless hours of meetings.

It’s a little after lunch when Bahorel finally comes back carrying a box of pamphlets fresh from the presses and Grantaire is shooed away by Jehan with a kiss on his cheek and a suggestion to go get lunch from Musichetta.

‘No need, I have his lunch with me,’ Enjolras says, appearing out of nowhere like a golden god in a blue coat, a red button down shirt and his best trousers carrying a sandwich (brie and apple grilled Panini: delicious) and a bottle of water in his hands.

Grantaire watches Enjolras curiously as he chews his sandwich. Enjolras watches right back as if it’s infinitely more interesting to watch Grantaire eat than overseeing the event he’s literally pulled his hair out for.

‘What are you doing? It’s _weird_ ,’ Grantaire complains once he’s swallowed the last of his lunch.

‘What’s weird, exactly?’ Enjolras asks. He reaches for the water bottle and uncaps it before handing it back to Grantaire

Grantaire tries not to die on the spot. ‘That! Stop that, Apollo.’

Enjolras has the nerve to sigh and rub his temple as if Grantaire is the one being difficult. ‘I have a question.’

‘Oh my God,’ Grantaire groans.

‘And here we have devoted R praying to his deity,’ Courfeyrac narrates as he herds a group of giggling senior girls past them.

Grantaire flips him off with a vicious grin. ‘Jehan is looking at you right now, Courfeyrac.’

Courfeyrac looks over his shoulder. Jehan looks away. ‘I have to go,’ he mumbles in panic and scurries away, leaving the senior girls pouting after him.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras calls his name and Grantaire turns to him instantly, obediently.

This time it’s Grantaire who asks a question before he can.

‘Why are you doing this, Enjolras? What’s the whole point?’

‘I’m learning you,’ Enjolras answers.

That is _not_ fucking cute, Grantaire tells himself. ‘I’m not one of your fucking pet causes, Apollo.’

Enjolras touches his shoulder briefly. ‘You aren’t, Grantaire. I’m serious. We’ve always been fighting and I haven’t appreciated the kind of person you are.’

Grantaire snorts. ‘That’s because there isn’t much to me, Enjolras.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Enjolras says softly.  He glances down at Grantaire’s nearly empty sketchpad and taps a finger on the page. It’s a caricature of Enjolras giving a speech earlier, only it’s not making fun of him at all. ‘May I have this?’

Grantaire instantly rips the page out and hands it to him before he can even blink. He really needs to work on that.

Enjolras carefully slips it on his clipboard. ‘Thank you. I’ll see you later at the Musain.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He watches Enjolras turn away and head back to the front of the crowd, when Grantaire stops him with a hand on his arm. ‘Wait, wait, what were you going to ask me?’

Enjolras tips his head a little, his fringe tumbling over his brow. ‘Why do you never ask _me_ questions?’

That shouldn’t even be a question. ‘Because I already know you,’ says Grantaire, bewildered. This really isn’t news to anyone, not even Enjolras.

Something brightens in Enjolras’ eyes. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

 

-

 

They’re surrounded by their friends but it also feels like it’s just them.

‘Did you ever wet the bed?’

‘What kind of fucking stupid question is that, Enjolras?’

‘Did you?’

‘No boundaries, I swear -- fine, yes, once, okay? I was five. Happy?’

‘Not particularly,’ Enjolras says with a wrinkle of his nose.

Grantaire shoves at his shoulder. ‘You are a colossal dick, you really are.’

‘What’s your favourite piece of art?’

‘Nothing. Everything! I can’t choose. It’s like asking a parent who their favourite kid is.’

‘Well -- ’

‘I can tell you’re an only child.’

‘Grantaire, answer the question.’

Scowling, hands over his face (and smiling underneath), Grantaire mumbles out, ‘The Starry Night.’

‘Again, predictable,’ Enjolras shoots at him. He scoots a little closer when Joly makes room for Bossuet on the tiny sofa. His ankle brushes against Grantaire’s calf.

‘I’m _so_ sorry for having plebeian tastes,’ Grantaire retorts right back. He’s probably smiling like a lunatic.

Enjolras leans towards him, their shoulders brushing, nearly overlapping. His smile broadens and turns mischievous. ‘Who is your favourite Greek god?’

Everyone in the room groans at that, giving away the fact that they are clearly eavesdropping, not that they were doing a stellar job of hiding it in the first place.

Bahorel throws a pillow that smacks Grantaire’s chest. ‘This is giving me cavities! Joly, is that possible?’

‘Normally I wouldn’t even joke about that,’ Joly says as he bites his lower lip from laughing, ‘but this? It just might do.’

‘Apollo,’ says Grantaire.

‘Are you answering or declaring?’ Feuilly challenges him.

‘It’s bad enough that I have to put up with Enjolras’ questions,’ Grantaire protests as he lobs the pillow back at Bahorel.

Enjolras looks at him, suddenly serious. ‘Grantaire, you know that you really don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.’

‘You,’ Grantaire points at him, and because he’s giddy and out of his mind and emboldened by their friends grinning at them (Eponine is pretending to gag even as Marius sighs dreamily into his fist), he tugs on a lock of gold hair, ‘are utterly ridiculous. And my favourite happens to be Dionysus.’

‘Boo,’ Courfeyrac shouts, throwing his arms in the air, ‘what a cop out!’

‘Lies, all lies,’ Combeferre chimes in.

Grantaire flips all of them off (except Jehan, who is a darling, and Enjolras, just because). ‘You are all terrible people and you should be ashamed of yourselves.’

Everyone breaks into discussion then about how terrible they really are, and Enjolras gently touches the inside of Grantaire’s wrist.

‘Next?’ Grantaire asks, wearing a lopsided grin.

Enjolras nods. ‘Kirk or Picard?’

 

-

 

‘Wow, seriously?’ Grantaire laughs under his breath in disbelief when he finds Enjolras outside the art department, educating a crowd of people on the finer points of activism and how it’s the new chicken soup for the soul. He lingers on the outer edge for a few minutes, listening to the man and rolling his eyes when he spies the girls in front who are staring at Enjolras with parted lips and devouring eyes. Enjolras hands out a few flyers he takes from inside his messenger bag because he always carries them with him. The man is absolutely ridiculous.

The crowd eventually disperses until it’s just the girls trying to coax Enjolras’ number from him and Grantaire takes gleeful pleasure in watching Enjolras stare them down until they huff and leave. Enjolras zips up his bag and looks up and catches Grantaire’s eyes. Lo and behold, a small smile appears on his face.

‘Grantaire,’ he acknowledges with a nod as he walks over to him, ‘I was waiting for you.’

‘Recruiting suggestible minds, more like,’ Grantaire smirks to hide his giddy reaction to what Enjolras said.

Enjolras actually chuckles. ‘You should never pass up an opportunity to spread the word for the cause, R.’

‘Shut up, we’re artists, not heroes like you,’ Grantaire says as he drags Enjolras down the path to the nearest Thai restaurant because he’s hungry. He forgets to let go of Enjolras’ hand (really, he doesn’t remember, it’s really hard to keep track of his hand, okay).

Enjolras shakes his head at him. ‘And yet artists have inspired the greatest leaders with their art; made people think, made people _feel_ into changing the world.’

‘You have way too much faith in people,’ Grantaire admonishes past the tightness in his throat because Enjolras is looking at him in that peculiar way again.

Enjolras spreads his fingers wide and entangles them with Grantaire’s, fitting snugly in the spaces between. ‘I do, and I haven’t been disappointed so far,’ he says, lips tilting upwards, ‘and I’m going to ask you on a date now, if that’s alright with you.’

‘What -- ’ Grantaire lets out a shaky breath like he's been punched, eyes going wide. He's been wondering if something like this is going to happen but at the same time not daring to hope because things like this don't happen to him, not good things; not amazing, Enjolras things. And yet somehow this is real (it doesn't feel real; _please let it be real_ ). Enjolras blinks at him, eyebrows beginning to furrow at his prolonged silence, and Grantaire rakes a hand through his messy hair. ‘ _Really?_ If you, are you sure you've, if you're sure -- ’ He's caught in Enjolras’ intense gaze, not a hint of uncertainty in them. He's probably crushing the other man's hand but he can't let go, can't do anything but finally gasp out almost desperately, ‘Of course, I, _God, yes!_ Definitely!’

Enjolras stops and Grantaire stops with him, their hands swinging between them. Enjolras is smiling so wide that it looks strange but he is still the most beautiful thing in the world. Grantaire is sure that Enjolras can feel how his palm is growing sweaty and it’s gross and he starts to apologise and pull away when Enjolras tightens his grip and pulls him closer, so close the tips of their noses touch. Enjolras tilts his head sideways.

‘Can I -- ’

‘Oh my God,’ Grantaire bursts out, completely adoring, ‘yes, yes, are you fucking kidding me, you don’t have to ask if you can kiss me, I’m giving you permission _forever_ \-- ’ 

Enjolras kisses him, mouth curving in a fond smile that Grantaire can taste. His heart is breaking with happiness. Grantaire didn’t even know he’s capable of feeling such a thing. He is, apparently. He cups Enjolras' face reverently and kisses him back. He can't help but ask his own questions and Enjolras answers him generously, sweetly with _yes_ and _I do_ and _I know you now_. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God what have I done, I wrote les mis fic when I'm actually not that taken with the book or the movie, but goddamn E/R sucked me in with the possibility of their dynamic and the pining of it all (which I ADOREADOREADORE) and also George Blagden's face. Plus, curly haired guys get to me. Especially curly haired guys who argue and banter and who are really oblivious and stupid. Just everything about E/R is wonderful and amazing to me. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. Hope this didn't suck too much :)


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